


Remembrance

by Raziel



Category: 19th Century CE RPF
Genre: F/M, Gen, Melbourne, POV Victoria of the United Kingdom (1819-1901), POV William Lamb 2nd Viscount Melbourne, Victoria - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-15 17:15:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29439591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raziel/pseuds/Raziel
Summary: 1848
Relationships: William Lamb 2nd Viscount Melbourne/Victoria of the United Kingdom (1819-1901)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

14 February 1848

_The seasons bring the flower again,_

_And bring the firstling to the flock;_

_And in the dusk of thee, the clock_

_Beats out the little lives of men._

The poet had that peculiar burning intensity which Victoria found disconcerting. She preferred witty, urbane gentlemen, men who – on the surface, at least – took nothing too seriously, themselves included. Men, she knew, like her own dear incomparable Lord M and those who shared his birth, breeding and outlook. He was very peculiar looking, tall, dark, with a fine head, long black flowing hair and a beard, oddly dressed, with no affectation about him. His raw intensity held none of that air of lazy sophistication to which she was drawn, notable in Lord M, of course, but to be found in his peers as well, men like the Duke of Devonshire and dashing, infuriating Pam, Viscount Palmerston.

Mr. Southey had been her first Poet Laureate, inherited with the Crown. She'd felt no inclination to appoint any other – in fact, had scarcely realized there was such an appointment to make. When he died, in 1843, William Wordsworth had been her next. He'd attempted to decline, on the basis of age, or false modesty or both – or perhaps, Victoria reflected now, looking back, it simply wasn't as much of an honor as his benefactors believed. Now in his late 70s, Wordsworth wrote the Lord Chamberlain monthly at least, begging to be relieved of his lofty position.

And this gentleman, now standing before her, was the result.

"You are to be congratulated on such prolific output." Victoria met the poet's deep-set, fiery eyes with determination, willing herself to attend, and showed him her most disarming smile as she struggled to guess what he had said, in that undammed torrent of words. "And on the passion you so clearly feel for your work."

14 February. Victoria felt a twinge of residual annoyance, that she was distracted and on the verge of revealing her thoughts with an expression entirely unsuited to the occasion. She didn't want to be sitting primly in the Yellow Drawing Room, listening to this stiff poet drone on. Outside, the sun was shining, a rare sight in the wet winter of 1848. Victoria could even, if she tried very hard, smell the sodden earth coming to life. She felt restless and giddy, and longed to run or ride hard or dance. _Instead, here we are…_

Lord M had been in the midst of his morning toilette when she joined him. Victoria was fond of stealing a few private minutes before they joined the court to begin their day. Her dresser, Melbourne's valet, were unabashed, accustomed to the informality of their royal masters.

Victoria gathered her skirts and settled herself on the edge of a padded bench, her gaze following the movement of the straight razor Melbourne held. He _would_ shave himself, and washed himself too. Victoria, once taking for granted that a maid's hands would be the ones which wiped every crease and crevice, had gradually copied Melbourne's more self-sufficient approach. Now, looking back at the ignorant, self-absorbed girl she had been, she was doubly determined that her own children not depend on others as entirely as she herself had done.

Unlike her own mother and paternal aunts, Victoria saw the army of servants who surrounded her. Not _befriended_ , certainly – one had one's dignity to uphold – but she _saw_ them, and when one recognized the individual humanity in one's servitors, one could no longer complacently lift one's arms, spread one's legs, pretend the helplessness of a babe in expectation of being dressed and undressed, washed and wiped.

"Good morning, Baines," Victoria addressed her husband's valet, a trim gentlemen of middle years whose implacable manner was the antithesis of her own voluble chief dresser. And yet the two of them were a couple, of that she had little doubt. Melbourne frequently amused her with his bawdy speculation of the _when, where and what_ of their presumed relationship.

"Good morning, ma'am," he replied, shaking wrinkles only he could see from an embroidered waistcoat. Black on black, Victoria saw, none of the gay colors Melbourne might otherwise wear at Court. The House of Lords then, she guessed, or an equally somber venue must be his destination.

"What's the date?" Melbourne growled, stretching his upper lip and deftly moving the razor down one side, then the other. Victoria's eyes went up in surprise and she searched his expression for some sign he was teasing.

"February 14," she said brightly, suppressing the urge to giggle.

Valentine's Day had become a much-anticipated occasion in England. Since the advent of the penny post in 1840, greeting cards became all the rage. Vinegary and sweet, hand-made and as elaborate as the stationers could conceive, sent and received by lovers and friends, would-be and rejected suitors, those fortunate in love and those suffering the sting of rejection – these so-called _Valentines_ could be found in every segment of British society.

Victoria's gaze had scanned the room when she opened her eyes, but she saw only a disappointing absence of anything to mark the day. She had rushed through her own toilette to join him at his, eager to see what he would surprise her with first.

Melbourne spoke of the day ahead as though it were any other. The Lords were hearing yet another petition, this one from the archdeacon and clergy of Bedford, and the inhabitants of the Parish of Hunstanton, against the admission of Jews into parliament, and Melbourne was needed to lend gravitas to the dismissal of said petition. It was an old argument, one against which he had prevailed long before, arguing successfully that the State was entitled to the service of _all_ its members. Victoria could scarcely attend, swinging her foot impatiently. Surely he didn't imagine she would believe he _forgot_? _Never!_ But then, where were the little gifts, the flowers and sweet words?

Melbourne had an especial knack for making every occasion special, with playfulness, flair and panache. The first few years he had kept a proper distance, his cards and accompanying bouquets expressing only respectful affection and wit well in line with their position. Ah, but the year that it all began in earnest…Victoria's cheeks warmed at the memory. _Lingua flora_ , secret messages of love and desire conveyed with lavish abundance by blooms sent up from the Brocket Hall hothouses. Nothing _incriminating_ , of course, but the need for secrecy only enhanced that constant _frisson_ of excitement and anticipation between them.

In the years since, there were always flowers delivered during the night and more throughout the day, stately arrangements of gladioli, tea roses floating in bowls of water on her dressing table. Ah, and the cards – Melbourne chose well. He unerringly selected the perfect cards – one to be read in private, waiting on her pillow or on her breakfast tray, with a bold, saucy limerick, and another, with some personal yet entirely chaste expression of his love and devotion, to be displayed to the children and her ladies.

Jewelry too – nothing to compete with the grand State pieces, and all the more precious for it. Melbourne had presented her with all her favorite pieces, from his mother's garnets to whimsical woodland tiara to a delicate filigree heart on a fine gold chain and more. Best of all was the set he had given her to mark her churching, seven weeks after Liam's birth. _That_ had spoken of promise and possibility, and a glimpse of the future they would share. _Churching_ was the public ceremony, of course – every married couple knew exactly what else the end of those long weeks after birth implied.

Nevertheless and precedent notwithstanding, he had taken his leave from the breakfast room, leaning over her shoulder to kiss her cheek as if nothing was amiss. It left Victoria feeling confused and out of sorts, as petulant as a child.

**I hold it true, whate'er befall;**

**I feel it, when I sorrow most;**

**'Tis better to have loved and lost**

**Than never to have loved at all.**

Recalled to the present, Victoria tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowed. He had read every line, every stanza, of this poem closed to his heart and the emotion had wearied him. The former intensity was gone, replaced by a sort of jubilant sadness. _In memoriam_ had been dedicated to his dearest friend, upon that gentleman's death. Whether their friendship was fraternal or something more, the words were surely from the heart and if they were melancholy in places, in total they celebrated love.

"Those words have provided much consolation to many bereaved, Mr. Tennyson," she said. "And joy to many lovers."

Victoria had no fondness for poetry beyond childish rhymes and limericks. Unwieldy lines full of cryptic imagery, nothing what it seemed, everything encoded according to some ungraspable logic, were not to her taste. Dear Lord M, on the other hand, could and did find hidden meaning, render the most abstract gibberish instantly comprehensible with a few well-chosen, and usually humorous, words. Victoria preferred contemporary novels. Her bedside table held no fewer than three of Mr. Dickens' volumes, published in serial form, bound especially for her; Lord M's friend and protégé, Mr. Bulwer-Lyttons, frequently send galley proofs and chapters as they were written, especially for her enjoyment. Light reading all, and if they intended to make a point, like Mr. Disraeli's _Sybil_ , it was well-concealed beneath lively characters and engrossing plot.

The matter of Mr. Wordsworth's retirement and a new Poet Laureate for England had claimed enough of her time. In the end, the matter would be decided by others; she could do little more than commend their choice. If further consideration was needed, dear Lord M could render an opinion. She considered the thickness of pages in that portfolio and blessed Melbourne's insatiable appetite for reading.

Insatiable appetite for _everything_ , Victoria said in her mind. For literature ancient and modern, philosophy and natural history – and that was only in reading material. He could argue for hours in like-minded company, about Plato's hidden truths or the newest agricultural innovation. He knew something about everything and had the gift of rendering the driest of subjects interesting and amusing. _A man of great appetites, but not indiscriminate; a connoisseur._ This time Victoria gave _appetites_ a different interpretation, and her features softened, smiling she thought of this man she adored. Food and drink, lovemaking and the beauty of the world around them – Melbourne was pleased by it all, wholly alive. If there was ugliness and hardship, he preferred not to see, and taught her to focus on the good.

All unaware, Victoria's face had grown radiant, so that her countenance was almost beautiful. Unnoticed, her equerry had to bite his own cheek to keep from smiling at the sight and the tall bear-hatted sentry, still a very young man, felt a surge of emotion entirely unsuited to any dutiful soldier of the Queen.

Victoria's eyes flickered to the clock, and from there to the page of her diary showing that day's engagements. Fifteen minutes until her next audience, and Lord M must, by now, be sauntering through the anteroom surrounded by glad-handers eager to be seen talking to the Duke. She stood to stretch her legs and went to look out of the window.

The previous winter had been one of the coldest on record, according to the learned gentlemen who studied such natural phenomenon. 1848, thus far, was proving to be wet but not cold, and even the briefest interludes of sunshine coaxed intrepid early crocuses to life.

The sun in the sky was a welcome visitor, and Victoria briefly regretted not accompanying Lord M to Whitehall. Of course, she could do no such thing. The Queen's presence would be disruptive and although they would pretend to delight at the honor, none of the ministers and Members would appreciate such an impromptu upsetting of their carefully planned agenda.

Spontaneity and the freedom to move about at will were anathema to those men whose duty it was to account for every minute of the sovereign's day. Victoria could no more drop in uninvited to her own Houses of Parliament, than she could summon her carriage for an outing to the Burlington Arcade.

The rare outings she managed were sources of unmitigated excitement for Victoria. Lord M had, with Billy Cameron's assistance, taken Victoria to dine _incognito_ in Pall Mall, and to the theatre on several memorable occasions. These trips, when she walked beside her husband as just another fashionable, well-born London lady, were made possible only because of the plainclothes detectives Billy had recruited from every walk of life.

The mission of his _secret service_ was to protect the _life_ of the queen. Albert's murder and the attempts on her life made it clear that, in modern society, military regiments in all their stalwart glory were as much captors as protectors and if she were to have any semblance of a normal life, another solution was needed.

Some small sound interrupted her musing, and Victoria turned to see who it was. Four servants were already skittering out of the salon, having deposited their burden and left. Seeing what they'd brought, Victoria clapped her hands and shrieked with glee.

♛

"I could," Melbourne replied to Victoria's question. She saw his mouth curved into an impish smile, recognized the playful light in his beautiful grey eyes. "We could go over this in great depth, line by line, so you can find the virtue therein. Take Canto 56, for example…

Who trusted God was love indeed

And love Creation's final law

Tho' Nature, erd in tooth and claw

With ravine, shriek'd against his creed

You can hear it as music, nevermind the meaning, and still be struck by the beauty of…"

Victoria sprang to her feet, feeling too energized to remain decorously seated.

"My darling, your voice is music enough for me – truly, you could bring back Cook's instructions on making a- a roue, and the sound of you reading the words would be a song. Truly. But this – no, really, I must insist we put it aside. If you want to read to me in bed, pray continue where we left off _Dombey and Son_. Or –" Victoria inclined her head and looked at Melbourne coquettishly. "Or _Les Dames Galantes_? Perhaps we could revisit _Fanny Hill_ …"

She was laughing as she spoke, picking at the petals which stuck to her dress.

Melbourne had outdone himself, truly. From that disappointing start, when she was nearly certain he had forgotten, the day had been a succession of surprises.

Mid-morning, servants had delivered a ludicrous object, a silver-gilt barrow filled to overflowing with orangey yellow tulips in full bloom. There were so many, impossibly large, that their sheer exuberance seemed to light the room from within.

"Very well, madame, as you will. Only one last thought on the subject of our unfortunate poet. His politics are good – so good, in fact, that he contributed, albeit unintentionally, to the passage of my Reform Bill in 1832. Poets and artists of all stripe can do much to sway large segments of the population. Unlike some of his firebrand brethren, Tennyson has always believed as I did – do - that society should progress through gradual and steady reform, not revolution. This was reflected in his attitude toward universal suffrage, which he did not outright reject, but recommended only after the masses had been properly educated and adjusted to self-government. Likewise the Jamaica Bill – he did much, indirectly by his writings, to accustom the population to apprenticeship and gradual integration as the only rational, bloodless solution for that benighted island."

"Are you _trying_ to bore me, Lord M?" she asked. They were taking tea in the drawing room, in the company of some of the ladies and gentlemen of the Court. Groups of two and three spoke in low voices, accompaniment to the soft _click of_ porcelain and occasional male laughter.

"You're in high spirits today," Melbourne said, and his rumbling voice was so very tender that Victoria felt a rush of love and longing. _Longing?_ She mused. _What an odd choice of words, when he's right here in front of me, reminding me how very much I am loved and cherished._

The tulips were followed in rapid succession by flowers of every hue. Brightening the studious dim interior of her private office, white blooms large and small. Platter-sized peonies beyond counting, filled Chinese porcelain vases, roses too numerous for tasteful arrangement spilled out of shining golden urns. Tea roses, modest by comparison, had been cut to fit in delicate tea cups. Creamy hydrangeas big as cabbages, impossibly sweet-smelling magnolias…against the dark leather bindings of constitutional law, the promiscuous display made thrilling contrast.

Yellow flowers filled every corner of the morning room; purple blossoms had overtaken the dining room used for non-State Court occasions, and a riotous red the evening drawing room. So abundant, even overwhelming, were the sight and scent of Nature that Victoria at first failed to find the note cards with lines written in an unfamiliar hand. It was not Lord M's angular scraw, although the sentiments were doubtless his.

With the daffodils, "Bright as the bow that spans the storm, in Erin's yellow vesture clad, A son of light, a lovely form, he comes and makes her glad…"

With the dahlias, those cultivars Victoria recalled Melbourne toiling over, rearing cuttings sent by a friend, "For ever thine! 'mid fashion's heartless throng, in courtly bowers, at folly's gilded shrine. Smiles on my cheek, light words upon my tongue, my deep heart still is thine – forever thine."

One she'd grasped that she was meant to hunt for these notes, like the hidden treasure they were, Victoria had lifted her skirts to run from room to room, searching. Lily and her cousins joined in the fun, three excited little girls foraging through leaves and stems.

Now Victoria had many of the folded sheets of paper, each of them no bigger than a calling card. She had laid them within the tissue paper-thin pages of _Lingua Flora_ , like the treasures they were, to be pored over later at great length.

"Do you remember…" Victoria murmured, glancing over her shoulder to reassure herself that the others were at least superficially occupied.

Giddiness subsided, Victoria moved herself into the protective circle of his arm. She knew he would embrace her, heedless of their attendants, and he did, chastely but with the promise of intimacy to come.

"Do you?" Melbourne returned question for question. His tone was surprisingly solemn.

In 1841, newly emerged from seclusion after the birth of their son, Victoria had chafed against the necessary discretion which made it all but impossible to be alone with Melbourne in the way she wanted to be. She wanted to go to sleep beside him, to wake beside him, and to explore the strange new world of desire and fulfilment in the night. Even Albert's active participation, stemming in part from gratitude and in part, Victoria sometimes suspected, from his own attraction to the handsome, debonair Lord M, did not make it easy to steal more than a few precious minutes at a time.

The treasure hunt that Valentine's day had broken through her ennui, awakened her exuberance and zest. She had shocked Lehzen and her mother by running hither and yon, when a new mother was scarcely permitted to walk, but even those old foes united in their relief to see Victoria's high spirits return. The new little Prince was almost two months old, her bleeding had stopped and her stomach was nearly as taut as before. Victoria was a healthy creature, unaccustomed to bed rest, and that first full day out of her quarters remained an indelible memory.

Best of all, the notes. Unobjectionable on the surface, they were the first _written_ testament to the fact that she had captured the heart of society's most fashionable, most desirable, gentleman. More even than secret kisses and caresses, Lord M had expressed himself in well-chosen sonnets like the most romantic of fairytale lovers. None were signed, of course, but _she_ knew, she _knew_ , and exulted in the certainty of her conquest.

Now, seven years on, they were happily, contentedly wed. If Victoria occasionally waxed nostalgic when she remembered the undeniable thrill of early subterfuge and unconsummated desire, she wouldn't trade their present contentment for the world. Nothing could mar the perfect peace of their union, and no power on heaven or earth could ever separate them again.


	2. Chapter 2

14 February 1848

_Thou wilt not leave us in the dust:_

_Thou madest man, he knows not why,_

_He thinks he was not made to die;_

_And thou hast made him: thou art just.._

Melbourne pondered the lines, turning them over in his mind, suspending intellect's urge to impose any literal interpretation. He looked up from Mr. Tennyson's handwritten manuscript. The poem was not yet published, not yet a part of the poet's growing body of public work, but he had given it pride of place in the portfolio he assembled for Victoria.

Dedicated to Arthur Hallam, Tennyson's dearest friend, Melbourne recalled some talk – no, not _talk_ , merely a shrugging assumption – that their _friendship_ was extremely close, some might say intimate. After Hallam's untimely death, Tennyson's grief inspired some early success.

The younger generation, of which Melbourne was no part, was not inclined to shrug off such private peccadilloes and showed a distressing tendency to be as straight-laced as a Methodist, as outwardly prim and proper as a middle-class spinster. Middle class! Melbourne considered the adoption of middle class values as unfortunate in the extreme. He blamed the French revolution as much or more as he did the ascendancy of the actual middle class. The newly wealthy industrialists, first of their name to afford the outward trappings of wealth, _bourgeoisie_ , caught between the proletariat and the aristocracy, sneered at by both, accepted by neither, had rejected the morals of those above and below them. Whether genuine or sprung from a real fear that hard-earned might be easily snatched away by the poor who toiled in their foundries and factories, or by the ruling class who looked down their nose, these worthies were, in Melbourne's considered view, inclined to be judgmental, repressed and utterly devoid of joy.

The patinated bronze and ormolu clock on the mantle showed it was not yet midnight. Once upon a time – that time not so very long ago – he might have been contemplating a late supper, in one or the other of the gentlemen's clubs, or only just settled into his accustomed place of honor at one or another of the _salons_. Elizabeth, dear Lady Holland, had kept just such a place in reserve in her drawing room and Caroline forbade any but Lord Melbourne from occupying the chair she designated _his_. From there, he would sip cognac and fondly stroke that sleek dark head and she, spitfire and intellectual beacon, would lean against his knee in a docile adoring posture while around them, London's best and brightest would vie for Melbourne's attention.

Not even a decade since he saw the last of those drawing rooms, until he seldom retired until a pink sunrise glow filled the sky, and now ten o'clock was his usual bedtime, on all but State occasions.

Melbourne shifted in his chair, leaning away from the fire, and considered the events of the day. His features softened in contemplation. Victoria had, of course, half-known he was teasing, when he'd pretended forgetfulness. It was all arranged in advance, the delivery of all the flowers, with their handwritten Valentine notes. He had departed confident that his accomplices would do their part. Excess and overabundance, showy blooms, overwrought presentations – love play between them, and the grand silly gestures had done their part. When he'd returned from Whitehall Victoria had been wreathed in smiles. She and her ladies were giggling like schoolgirls as he bowed over each of their hands.

"One more?" he'd asked her, arching a brow, as he showed her what he carried. Pathetic in the company of hothouse flowers, a single wilted crocus lay in his palm.

"I rode through the park on my way home," Melbourne explained. "This valiant little fellow foretells the advent of spring."

As completely pleased and amused as Victoria was by the seemingly never-ending deliveries of hothouse flowers throughout the day, each display more spectacular than the last, she understood as he hoped she might. This poor flower, its cheery yellow petals already tinged with decay, was a spontaneous volunteer, something simple – an early spring flower he happened upon in nature.

Understood, and more – Victoria's piquant little heart-shaped face radiated tenderness as she took his final offering. Her blue eyes met his, in that silent communication which ran deeper than words, needed no words.

Only the rustling of skirts, a sudden busyness on the part of her retinue, broke into the spell of intimacy. It was not always thus, of course – how could it be? They were parents, the heads of a vast household and she, of a kingdom – but those moments, when they came, were a gift to them both, a brief transcendent union of spirits.

Melbourne had tucked her tenderly into bed and kissed her good night, just as he had their daughter. And then he came here, to his study, hoping to write. So often, almost always, committing his thoughts, his memories to print, was a painful and tedious exercise to be avoided. But when the words were there, already formed, recollections bubbling to the surface, then the need to follow where they led was irresistible.

♛

The day, as the week and month, had been bitterly cold, the pellucid air scarcely relieved by bright sun overhead. Melbourne had, after making his requisite appearance at the Palace, retreated to South Street. He stayed there only long enough for night to fall, passing the time by flipping through cards of invitation. Knatchbull – no, the fellow tended to be prosey, aping a stilted manner to please his starchy wife.

Charles Greville was hosting another dinner and begged the honor of Lord Melbourne's attendance. Melbourne's lips twitched, torn between an expression of disgust and one of ironic amusement. Greville's pen might use vitriol as ink, but his waspish observations were as shrewd as they could hold. Doubtless he wanted to see for himself how _Lord M_ was holding up in response to his presumed detachment from the side of the Queen.

"Not fair, not just," Melbourne murmured aloud, chastising himself for such an ungenerous thought. In truth Greville had been fair, more than fair, even supportive, and in light of his ruthless impartiality, that counted for much.

"I do not believe that Melbourne does any such thing," Greville had rebuked those who accused the Melbourne of encouraging the Queen's hostile disposition of the Queen towards Peel and the Tories. "and _he alone has access to the Queen's ear and to her secret thoughts…_ Melbourne is a man of honor and of sense, and he is deeply attached to the Queen."

As useful as Greville's support was, it gratified Melbourne on another, more personal level as well. It was a damnable tightrope to walk, needing to maintain that polite fiction yet craving, hungering for validation of what his mind, his manly pride, could not completely credit.

 _Access to her ear, and her heart and soul. She loves me; I've had her, and shall have her again. I hold the key to that spitfire heart, that stubborn, clear-sighted mind. More than have her; my blood runs in the veins of –_ No! Not even in my own mind, dare I let that thought form. He is the legitimate heir of Queen Victoria and her spouse Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha.

"Very well, then. Greville's dinner and from there, a look-in at the Duchess of Bedford's soirée. Ah, and if I indulge her I must not slight Lady Normandy. After that…" Melbourne had the habit of speaking aloud, whether or not he was attended. But there were some thoughts too delicate to give expression, even in the solitude of his own dressing room. Instead a pleasing mental image flickered, then faded, of a tastefully appointed house in Park Crescent.

If there was a determination in Melbourne's pursuit of busyness and distraction, it was not entirely feigned. He was well-satisfied with his life in general, content in the good opinion of society and the approbation of political friends and foes alike. And if there was still a looming chasm beneath his feet, it was, like any deep well, carefully planked and concealed from daily awareness.

The dinner was good, multiple courses and removes, and the conversation even better. Charles Greville, Privy Council secretary and premier society doyen, had as usual assembled a scintillating table, choosing as his guests clever and witty men, accomplished in their respective fields, but by no means the usual type one met all over town. Sir Herbert Jenner, an oily clergyman recently published and Lord John Russell were only a few.

As Secretary-Recorder of Council minutes, Greville was apolitical, but he did not hide his contempt for Robert Peel and skepticism of his prospects, so that Melbourne winced at some of his more injudicious comments. Although he himself had seen her briefly that morning, the artificiality of their superficial separation was such that Melbourne felt a pang when Greville described his own meeting with the Queen.

"I found her with the Prince," Greville told them. "The table covered with bags and boxes. She desired me to dispense them on her behalf. She looked very much flushed and her heart was evidently brim full, but she was composed and leaned on the Prince for support. Much credit to you, Lord Melbourne, for coaxing her along and putting Her Majesty into such capable hands."

Melbourne glanced up at the last, searching for any outward sign of the irony that Greville intended. Those very _capable hands_ were doubtless at that very moment fondling some molly house doxy. He liked the young prince well enough, he supposed, although the boy's cloying devotion was more than a little awkward. It made no difference to him, that Albert preferred the charms of his own sex – well, in fact, it made all the difference in the world, at the root of their sham marriage of convenience. Still, if he wasn't jealous of young Albert and knew his own place in Victoria's heart, what _did_ he want? No public role, certainly; at least not of a personal kind. Special advisor to His Royal Highness Prince Albert, by appointment to his household, was the ruse which allowed him to come and go almost at will.

To dispel that sudden doubt, Melbourne drank deep and then changed the subject. Talk was wide-ranging, from the debilitating illness of Mr. Barnes, editor of the Times and a particular Greville crony, and the likelihood of his designating as his successor the extremely young, untried Mr. Delane, to the troublesome clatter of hot-blooded young Whigs protesting what they considered premature dissolution of the government. These latter often quoted Melbourne, albeit out of context, on the unwisdom of appealing to the masses for their opinion on matters of great importance.

The seemingly-misplaced, though doubtless learned clergyman entertained them all with his impression of Mademoiselle Rachel make her debut on the English stage. His falsetto imitation ended with a near-faint, causing all the gentlemen present, Lord Melbourne included, to break into choking laughter. _At_ him, not in appreciation of his mimicry, if he but knew it, Melbourne reflected pityingly.

Their time at table nearly ended, Charles waved his hand for the maître d'hôtel. That gentleman summoned Brooks' cicerone, in less rarified circles known as a beer sommelier. Footmen laid a fresh cloth and waiters set out glasses and pour. Those who took tobacco, did so then, and soon the air above their heads was wreathed in smoke.

At a nod from Greville, bottles were produced, all of them bearing an unfamiliar label. Melbourne nearly cringed in horrified embarrassment when he saw the bottles they bore, and then his natural sense of self-deprecating humor took over.

"A new vintage, m'lords," the fellow intoned, proudly pouring the first bottle himself. He deftly turned so that Melbourne could see, with some surprise, his own crest and title.

Greville, playfully solemn, accepted first pour and tilted his head in contemplation. When he approved and their glasses were filled, he expounded on this liquid token of appreciation. Brewed and vinted in his honor, commissioned by several of his closest friends, this peerless beverage, Greville told him, was a sophisticated blend of sophistication and whimsy, like its namesake and would, once its popularity took hold, ensure that the Melbourne name would live on.

Melbourne saw the utter ridiculousness of the gesture, recognizing at its core a genuine affection and some sympathy from those men who viewed him as retired from public life and probably desperate for some last recognition before he retreated in near-exile to Brocket Hall.

He stood and bowed to the table gracefully, and lifted his own glass in a toast.

"As strong as _Cognac_ , or any French brandy. Sophisticated enough for a gentleman's palate. This noble brew has your approval then, m'lord?"

Melbourne laughed heartily, to cover up his sudden discomfort. Any sort of public recognition, even one as simple as this, made him deeply restive. _Not likely you'd have ever been Consort to a Queen, no matter the circumstance_ , he told himself, chuckling, if you squirm at such horseplay in the privacy of your own club.

Charles answered for him.

"Certainly, it has Lord Melbourne's approval. God knows, he's received little else in recognition of his service."

He was no more than slightly tipsy, when he left Brooks' for Bedford Square. Tedium and distraction did more to cloud his memory, than anything he'd imbibed. From there, he'd gone dutifully to Lady Normandy's Belgravia town home, so that it had been past three, surely, when he'd engaged a hired vehicle to transport him to Park Crescent. It scarcely seemed worth the effort, he'd thought, entertaining sudden doubt. But the relief to be found there made the rest bearable, and he would partake of it in that spirit, without judgment or expectation, merely to satiate a physical need.

_Was that all there was to it? What point this urgency to recall?_

No, there was more, and that the next morning, a stolen hour made possible only by Albert's enthusiastic complicity. It would be unseemly – and inexplicable – were Lord Melbourne to be seen in the royal family quarters, on the very morning Her Majesty emerged from seclusion.

Feeling large, ungainly, even clumsy, he'd followed prince through Byzantine back passages – no pun there, Melbourne quipped to himself – and emerged into Victoria's bedchamber, long before her lady's maid would wake her at eight.

She slept, that little face as rosy and innocent as a child, one hand under her cheek. Glossy brown hair spilled out on the pillow, free of any nightcap to confine it. Virginal, innocent, a fairy princess, Melbourne thought, staring down at her in the milky dawn light. Then those blue eyes opened and she sprang up, mouth open in surprise. On her knees, all soft yielding flesh and smooth creamy skin, Victoria's arms went around him.

"How – how did you get here? Oh, I am so happy you did."

"Albert," Melbourne said, his lips against the crown of her head. It felt awkward and strange to say the boy's name, and at the same time entirely right. This peculiar marriage of convenience was by her own design, with her cousin's enthusiastic support. It was who they _were_ , the three of them, linked by fate and the will of one stubborn girl.

Melbourne eased her away and lowered himself to the mattress. _Lèse-majesté, daring to sit in the Queen's presence…on the Queen's bed._ He smirked, then lifted his arm for her to lean into him.

"Have you seen our child? Will you see him – in private, before we must playact our parts?"

"Not yet, but if Albert agrees and can manage it, I will look in on the babe, and then I will see you all in church."

"At the breakfast after, as well? You _are_ coming?"

The breakfast was a celebratory affair, with a hundred courtiers and half as many relations, from Hanover and Coburg. The christening, to be conducted the following Sunday, would have five times that number in attendance.

"I will be there, only one more face in the crowd, ma'am. You must not single me out, nor cause Albert to do so. That would not be…appropriate."

A scowl made her dark brows come together, her lip to push out in an eloquent pout. Then she sighed.

"Of course. But it won't always be this way. I'll find a way – somehow – "

Melbourne remained silent, knowing how impossible it was that there would be a way for him to be more than he was, warmly welcomed as a loyal advisor to Queen and Consort, but no more, never more. And he was not at all certain he wanted it any different. Surely, he did not aspire to any public recognition of this precious secret bond. The mockery which would ensue, the bawdy laughter at any suggestion a nubile twenty-one-year old girl might give herself to a near-commoner forty years her senior, made him wince inwardly. No, thank you, he thought, I've had enough public ridicule to last me a lifetime – first Caro, and then the Irish fiasco and George Norton's public accusations, heard in open court, had held his intimate peccadillos up for public scrutiny and the sting of humiliation never faded.

He kissed her tenderly, and held her close – hands straying, despite the most chaste of intentions, to those apple-sized breasts bobbing tantalizingly close – and then took his leave.

From there, Albert took him to the nursery. Melbourne heard him dismiss Lehzen in that sharp tone, full of dislike, that the prince reserved for Victoria's old governess. Then he was alone with the child – _his_ child – and with old, practiced movements, lifted the tiny boy to his shoulder.

 _This_ was the real danger, he told himself – opening his scarred heart to be wounded again and again. He could and would love Victoria in secret, content with their public friendship and private passion. But how to hold his own son at arm's length?

And yet he must; it was paramount, for so much more than the birthright of any Prince of Wales. The child's own life might depend on it. Melbourne had been an adolescent, and like his peers, deeply affected by events in France. A Queen brought down, ostensibly by the ideology of Robespierre and his ilk, but that wasn't the cause of sheer animalistic bloodlust directed at Marie Antoinette. No, it had been scandal, tales of her licentiousness, her putative lovers, the attentions of her devoted Axel de Fersen, even blood-curdling accusations of incest with her younger son.

 _I will be careful_ , he whispered into silky hair covering a head pillowed against his shoulder. _We_ will be careful. Uncle, honorary grandfather – _let them call me whatever they will, so long as it isn't Father._

It was the sense-memory of that blissful hour, inhaling the sweet perfume of newborn child, of cradling the tiny body which molded itself so perfectly into his embrace, which made Lord Melbourne smile beatifically throughout the morning. He nodded and bowed, smiled past the weariness which clouded his vision – one more late night to assuage the essential loneliness of this peculiar existence – and was content to watch from the sidelines, merely one more loyal subject of the Crown.

* * *

_If you're curious about Viscount Melbourne Imperial Double Porter, with the flavor, mouth feel and alcohol content of a high-end cognac, and you happen to find yourself in Wisconsin any time soon, you can toast our Lord M with his own namesake brew._


End file.
